Drunk
by SableUnstable
Summary: An argument and a party leads to an unexpected outcome. Harry really needs to be more careful. Post-war AU, one-shot, Drarry, Draco/Harry. Rated for language and themes.


**Drunk**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter or anything related

**A/N - **Inspired by a prompt on Tumblr. Enjoy!

* * *

"Go home, Harry, you're drunk."

_You know, I really don't think I am._

The world was spinning rather chaotically, in his opinion. Leaning against the back of a wooden chair that seemed to want to do the bloody can-can, Harry peered blearily up at the owner of the voice, a trickle of sweat running down the side of his neck. He felt like utter shite. The low murmur of talking and laughter, the band playing an endless cycle of Christmas music, the garish red and green decorations, it pressed down at him from all sides, emphasizing the horrible pounding in his temples.

His brain felt like a cauldron full of bubbling mush, _and _like it was hollering at him at the speed of sound, all at the same time. And he wasn't entirely sure why.

How strong _was_ that firewhiskey anyway?

"You realise you've got a game tomorrow, don't you? Drinking in excess this evening really wasn't a good idea."

"You sound like my bloody mother," Harry mumbled, lifting a shaky hand to wipe the spit off his chin. There was a buzzing in his chest that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Like he'd swallowed a handful of bees.

Had he swallowed a handful of bees?

"Now, now, no need to be nasty. I'm just making an observation."

_Observation, my arse._

"And a very nice arse it is, too, love."

"Fuck you," Harry muttered again, pushing away from the chair and taking a step away from the annoying twat who seemed to have developed his mind reading skills rather rapidly, only to stop when the floor seemed to swoop and slur around him, imitating the contents of his suddenly burning stomach. When did the lights get so bloody bright? Couldn't they turn those down or something? "I don't need t'do anything you say."

"You are right, you don't. But I'm sure your coach and team would appreciate it if you did, however."

Harry shook his head. The bees in his chest had begun to grow tentacle-like horns, the buzzing spreading up into his throat and down into his lower body. It hurt. Why did it hurt? They were snapping out and stinging him, a swell of buzzy, sharper-than-pin-prick tingles that were both confusing and distressing. The pounding in his head had taking on a somewhat floaty edge, as if his thoughts were being consumed by bubbles made of concrete. Harry let out a quiet laugh.

Bubbles weren't made of concrete. Were they?

Had he had too much champagne?

He'd only had one drink.

Hadn't he?

Just one. He'd committed to just one.

The only one.

Concrete-bubble thoughts were very strange. Harry laughed again and blinked the sweat out of his eyes before taking another step.

His legs were trembling. Were his legs trembling?

Why?

He'd had _one _drink!

"Harry? All right, love, you really don't look good. I think we should call it a night, hmm?"

A hand grasped his arm, voice gentle, breath warm against his ear. Harry tried to lift his head, to move his mouth; to nod; to push the hand away; to do _something_, but found whatever it was going to be impossible. The buzzing was deafening now, screeching with knives that scraped at his insides. Jellifying his thoughts.

Jellifying his lungs.

He couldn't breathe.

He'd had _one drink!_

_Ah, fuck me._

"Harry? Harry!"

_Nope, really not drunk,_ was Harry's last sighing thought as his legs gave way under him, his consciousness fleeing suddenly and violently under the force of the drug he'd taken without his knowledge coursing through his system. _Really not drunk at all._

~0~

"You're incredibly pretty, you know."

It was said almost conversationally. The corner of Draco's mouth twitched, his cheeks taking on a tinge of heat.

Bloody charmer.

"Shut it, Potter, you're drunk."

"Am not," Potter replied, his voice coming out mulish. The quill in Draco's hand paused for just a second before continuing. The scratching of the tip on the parchment was loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Stale. The room was stale. Draco frowned down at the notes he was updating. Bloody Healers didn't know what they were on about.

That wouldn't do.

"You're acting like you are."

"It's the drug, not me!"

"And now you're whining," Draco said calmly, setting the notes back down in their slot at the end of the bed and removing his wand, his robes swishing around his ankles as he moved around the room to freshen things up, every once in a while revealing a glimpse of his dragonhide boots. "Whining is incredibly unbecoming, you know. Not very attractive at all."

"I could make you come if you'd let me."

Stopping as if he'd ran smack into an invisible wall, Draco's head snapped around so quickly, his neck protested. Potter was sitting up in the hospital bed, his cheeks a ruddy, ruby red. He was looking at Draco with half-cast eyes, lids low. Draco scowled and snapped his wand back into its holster.

His heart was beating much too fast.

_Fucking drug._

"I'd advise you to watch your mouth, scarhead," he said, walking back over to the bed and reaching a hand out to grip Potter's chin. Those hot, half-cast eyes had spidery yellow veins stretching out from the emerald green irises.

Yip, still high as a bleeding kite. Draco's scowl deepened

"You're in a public place. It wouldn't do to be overheard."

"I really don't care if the entire Ministry overhears me. You're bloody pretty and I'd really like to make you come. Or just touch you. Either's good, although I'm sure you'd enjoy the first a lot more than the second."

_Bloody hell. Hot eyes indeed. _Draco's heart slamming in his chest, he went to release Potter's chin and step back, away from the drugged, horny toad coming on to him, only to find he couldn't. Potter's hand was wrapped around his wrist.

No way to escape.

Did he even want to?

"Draco."

"Don't." The word whiplashed out, making Harry flinch. Draco's fingers tightened on his chin to the point of pain. "Don't you _dare_ speak. You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes I do," Harry answered hurriedly, hot eyes now suddenly pleading. "I _do._ I'm sorry. Don't be angry with me. _Please_ don't be angry with me. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be angry with you? Don't be _angry_ with you?! You let yourself get fucking _drugged!_" Draco exploded, ripping his wrist out of Harry's grip and storming away from the bed, the anger, the helplessness, the _fear_, bubbling up inside his gut until he couldn't contain it anymore. "You _know_ there are still factions out there that want you dead, people that'll do _anything_ to stop you playing, yet you accepted a drink from a stranger at a party hosted by someone we don't know personally and you _didn't fucking check it!_ All because you were angry with me! How could you be so bloody _careless?!_"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking!"

"Of course you weren't fucking thinking, you daft dunderhead! If you had've been, I wouldn't have just been correcting the antidote dosage those bloody incompetent healers have given you! Bloody shitting hell, I could _strangle _you!"

"Wanna fuck me instead?"

Swinging around and springing forward, Draco planted his hands on the bed, teeth bared. "Those buffoons you call teammates are rubbing off on you _far_ too much," he snarled, almost vibrating with anger. "Check that inappropriate humour coping mechanism, Potter, before I bite off the bloody head you seem to be thinking with!"

"Oooh, kinky. Yes please? Okay, okay, sorry!" Harry said hurriedly, holding up his hands when Draco growled low and clenched the sheets like he wanted to tear them in two. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Um. My head's still muddy and you really are exceptionally beautiful when you're pissed. Your eyes are just… ahem. Anyway. I'm really fucking sorry, okay? God, you've no clue how sorry I am. It shouldn't've happened. It _won't _happen again. I swear it won't."

"You're fucking right, it won't."

"No, it won't," Harry agreed rapidly, words tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out. "It won't because you won't let it, yeah?" His palm was hot as he leant forward and laid it against Draco's cheek, spiderly, slowly clearing eyes both panicky and earnest. "I've a Head Healer who loves me, don't I? He'll be all annoyingly suspicious and overprotective from now on, I guarantee it."

His heart was slamming its way into his throat. Draco swallowed heavily and pushed back from the bed to rub his wet eyes with fingers that shook.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

"Screw you, Potter. I swear, if you do something that ridiculously _stupid_ again, I will poison you so slowly and painfully you'll beg me to end it. You know I can do it. I'm the bloody best Healer St Mungo's has."

"Draco."

The single word broke through the quivering steel holding his spine straight. It felt almost as if his body was beyond his control as he turned back and hurled himself towards the bed, the formal robes he'd worn to the public party he and Harry had attended that evening at the Minister's urging billowing out over him and his husband when he wrapped himself up in Harry's outspread arms. His grip tight enough to hurt, he hugged the man he'd almost lost to his chest, all because of a stupid argument they'd had over Harry committing them to attending Christmas at the Burrow for the umpteenth time without discussing it with Draco first. Long hours and exhaustion, stress on both sides, and no 'us time' had contributed to everything getting blown out of proportion.

It won't happen again.

"We're taking a holiday for Christmas," he muttered into Harry's neck, eyes still hot and damp. He could feel the bumps of Harry's spine underneath the cold starchiness of his unflattering hospital gown. "Somewhere hot. Just us. Molly'll understand that, yes? We need some just us time. Can we do that please?"

"Yes, yes, of course we can. Just us." Harry's reply was muffled by the collar of Draco's rapidly getting wet robes. He continued to mutter bumbling words of reassurance, his hands moving from Draco's hair, to under his robes, to Draco's face and back again, fingertips gentle on skin chilled by terror. They clung to each other like a lifeline, for how long neither were entirely sure.

The words had slowly run out, both of them silent in each other's arms, when Harry spoke again.

"So. How do you feel about us ending the evening with me sucking you off until your brain explodes?"

Draco's rather shocked snort rang through the no longer stale room. "Sweet Salazar, Harry!" he said, coughing on the air he'd swallowed as he pulled back. "You're in a hospital bed, for Merlin's sake!"

"So?" Harry sent him a winning smile and sidled a little closer. "We're all alone and the door's lockable. What d'ya say?"

"I say you're barmy, is what I say!"

"Nah, just feeling the aftereffects of a drug and its antidote, a combination that's probably not supposed to make me horny. But hey, you're here and you're bloody stunning, and I really, really want to touch you. Just touch you. Draco? Please?"

It took a moment, but Draco's smile grew. "Whining won't get you anywhere, but manners certainly will," he murmured, letting out a low chuckle when Harry released an excited, almost puppy-like yip and threw himself back into his husband's welcoming arms.

It took three of Draco's colleagues almost an hour to break his reinforced locking charm. Neither of the room's rather busy occupants noticed.


End file.
